


Once Bitten

by mrua7



Series: Strange, scary stories and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. [53]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cemetery, Dracula Influence/References, F/M, Friendship, Spies & Secret Agents, Valentine's Day, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 10:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13679832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Illya Kuryakin has an unexpected experience when he goes to Highgate Cemetery in London in search of the tomb of Karl Marx.





	Once Bitten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JantoJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/gifts).



> Written for the Valentine Challenge- mfu_scrapbook, live journal.
> 
> This story contains mild het, though not overly explicit.
> 
> For JantoJones who requested "I would like something dark please. Illya-centric, TV based, and gen or gen mature. (Be as explicit as you like, if the mood takes you that way.)"

The prompt:

 

It was peaceful as he slowly walked along, with the only sound being that of the crunch of his shoes on the sidewalk. They apparently had not been swept for a very long time. Then again, where he was going was a place known for being untended and unkempt.

Heading northeast along Raydon St. towards Doynton St. Illya Kuryakin turned left onto Dartmouth Park Hill, then approximately another five hundred feet he turned onto Lulot Gardens. What he was searching for was supposed to be on the right...but it wasn’t.

He was in Highgate Cemetery to do what he should have done years ago when he was a GRU operative here in London, and that was pay homage to Karl Marx who had been interred there in 1883. Here Illya was at last looking for the man’s resting place not quite one hundred years later.

Marx’s theories about society, economics and politics, collectively understood as Marxism, his Communist Manifesto and three-volume Das Kapital were mandatory reading in school. Marx was very much part of Illya Kuryakin’s life. Despite being an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. he was still a Communist, though he found he needed to ignore any derogatory comments he received in regards to his political background. Even if he were not a Communist, he would still face negativity from some merely because he was from the Soviet Union.

He, along with the help his partner Napoleon, kept these naysayers at bay for the most part rather than taking a complaint to Mr. Waverly. It was better that way.

 

Upon reaching the spot were the tomb was supposed to be, Illya turned in place. Checking his surroundings, he scratched his blond head, not sure how he’d become lost. Unlike Solo, he was quite good at finding his way

Somehow he’d gotten himself turned round and was now lost in the graveyard. The sun was going down; not that it worried him.

He had a small torch in his pocket and was armed with his Special secured in its leather shoulder holster beneath his black suit jacket.

The landscape dominated by Gothic monuments was seemingly neglected with overgrowth of ivy, briars, ferns and moss, Highgate was one of the most well known cemeteries in the world yet it had fallen into disrepair. Immense oak trees created a canopy over the many moss covered and sometimes decaying crosses, statuary, tombstones and mausoleums that were scattered in what seemed like an endless labyrinth of monuments to the dead.

One could only conclude that so many graves were now unattended because the families died out, resulting in maintenance to become minimal. After the war, the cemetery went bankrupt and the once well appointed necropolis was all but abandoned.

The legends surrounding Highgate grew, originating from people who claimed to have come in contact with ghosts, vampires and spectral entities whose descriptions included a tall man in a hat, a ghostly cyclist, a woman in white, a face glaring through the bars of a gate, a figure wading into a pond, a pale gliding form all accompanied by ringing bells and voices that called out into the night as the scent of old death filled the air.

Rumors about cults meeting in the cemetery and holding ceremonies in the ruins abounded but Illya simply laughed them off.

He believed none of that prattle as he was a man of science. Things that went bump in the night were just that, noises and nothing more, unless of course it was an enemy agent, that was a different story altogether. He highly doubted T.H.R.U.S.H. had taken up residence here in the cemetery, not even a permanent guests, so to speak.

Chuckling at that thought, he found it amusing given how highly members of the Council thought of themselves being buried here in such squalid conditions.

At the moment his only concern might be more from the living than the dead; thieves and roaming gangs of hoodlums had been known to frequent the cemetery.

As Illya rounded a lichen covered mausoleum, shining his flashlight, he came face to face with a beautiful woman dressed in completely in black.

She wore a long dress that looked like it was from another time, though it was possible she could have been going to some sort of pre-lenten costume party.

In her hand she held a black parasol above her head, it was the sort one would use on a sunny day, though it wasn’t sunny at all, it was night.

“Oh sir, could you please help me? I seem to have become lost. I was looking for the grave of Karl Marx and have gotten myself all turned round.”

“An interesting coincidence Miss as I have done the same thing myself. The sun has gone down and I do not think this is not a safe place for a lady to be by herself. May I assist you?”

“Oh how gallant of you…”

“Illya, Illya Kuryakin at your service,” for some reason he felt compelled to click his heels.

“And my name is Darla, sir. Thank you so much, I will accept your offer of help. I’ve heard too many stories about Highgate being haunted by ghosts and vampires.”

“Miss, I can assure you there are no such things.”

The scientist in him believed that, but part of him  remembered things that happened in his childhood, things that were inexplicable, such as the time he and his father were set upon by a bodark; one who has been transformed. His father told him it was a man who turned into a wolf. *

Illya remembered everything happening so fast, and he being very young recalled seeing a wolf and then seeing a young man. It was Konstantin Ulyanin, the older brother of his classmate Yuri and he’d been shot dead with a silver bullet by his father, or so that was what Nicholaí Kuryakin said to his youngest son. ***** It was all so long ago and the incident had given the boy a terrible fright. His father warned him to never speak of it to anyone... _ever._ He obeyed his father and put it all out of his head.

It wasn't until Illya was trapped in the snow with Napoleon,  surrounded by a pack of wolves that he revealed what had happened that night with the bodark.*

Then there were strange spectral occurrences he and Napoleon had experienced while snowed in at a Milwaukee hotel that was purportedly haunted.**

As he quickly thought back, there were a number of instances where rather ghostly things had happened in his life, but still the pragmatic Illya Kuryakin needed his proof, proof that he never really received. He was in fact, a realist.

Darla took Illya by the arm, staying close to him as they walked along the path following the light from the torch.

They entered one of the oldest sections of the cemetery when she announced with a satisfied sigh to him that she was home; they stood in front of a Victorian era mausoleum.

“Beg pardon?”

She turned, gazing into Illya’s eyes with an intensity that he found compelling. He was unable to look away.

Filled with a warmth, he was drawn to the woman, and suddenly wanted to kiss those luscious ruby red lips of hers.

“Come with me,” she led Illya by the hand and took hold of the handle on an iron gate in front of door to the burial chamber. It opened with a long creaking groan, and once inside she leaned close and kissed him.

Illya was filled with a burning desire and wanted to take her right there; he returned her kiss with great enthusiasm, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her towards him.

This wasn’t like him at all, and alerts were sounding off in his head warning him, but he ignored them. His desire for this woman took control.

Strangely, as his lips touched hers, she felt as cold as ice, no matter, he-wanted-this-woman.

She pulled back, freeing herself from his grasp and took him by the hand again, leading him over to a mahogany coffin that rested in the center of the crypt.

“Lie down Illya, on your back.”

It was her eyes now glowing red that ordered him not her voice, and he couldn’t resist her, not that he wanted to. All he could feel was lust rising up within him along with something else that was rising as well.

She reached down and began to stroke his erection with her red nailed hand, up and down, up and down until he could barely stand it.

“Please, let me make love to you Darla?” He whispered, pleading with her.

She helped undo his trousers and climbed on top of him, slipping onto him ever-so-slowly.  As she undulated her hips, pleasuring herself, she undid the bodice of her dress, letting her milk white breasts break free.

Leaning forward, she let him take her nipples into his mouth, licking and sucking on them as he began thrusting hard into her like a man possessed, which apparently he was.

Darla groaned, raising her head as she opened her mouth, exposing a pair of glistening white fangs. She could see the pulsating of his artery, and drove them into his throat, tasting his oh so sweet blood.

“The blood is the life,” her maker, the Master, told her once and what she tasted tonight reminded her the truth of it.

Illya could smell the strong scent of lavender and cried out as she bit him; he’d never experienced pleasure like this in his life. The more she drank of his blood, the harder and faster he plunged into her until he released himself in throbbing ecstasy.

The woman ceased her feeding, and arching her back she cried out as shook with pleasure. She couldn’t remember that last time she’d felt such sexual gratification. Feeding brought its own rapture but not like what she’d just felt with this living man.

For that reason, this one she decided to spare...

Darla slipped down from him, and looking into his blue eyes, she spoke.

“You will remember nothing of this Illya Kuryakin, you will remember nothing.”

“I will remember nothing,” he droned.

“When I depart, you will dress yourself and leave as well. You will go from Highgate Cemetery and never return. It’s not safe here. Illya Kuryakin, I give the gift of your life to you.”

The vampire fixed her garments and leaned over, giving Illya a parting kiss; she gently stroked his cheek with her hand.

He was so fair and handsome, unlike that to which she was accustomed. Her long time lover was dark, and exotic but vicious. Though she liked that side of him. He had his own passionate ways about him.

She’d sired him, and had encouraged his animalistic side to rear its head. Still, sometimes she tired of him. Yet he was hers, and she was his for eternity unless she released him, or until some crazed vampire killer ended one or both of them.

Waiting outside the mausoleum stood a man also clothed in black, with long hair the color of the night.

There was just a hint of white lace cuffs showing through his sleeves. In his hand he held an ebony walking stick.

He too seemed dressed from another time. An Irishman by birth from Galway, he had a bit of Spanish ancestry in him from survivors of the Spanish Armada after a few of them escaped after their fleet had blown around to the western coast of Erin, there to meet its end at the hands of the British fleet. That gave him his darker and an unusual appearance for an man of Erin.

“My turn darlin', Sure I’m parched with the thirst,” he whispered after kissing her.

“No, not this time. This one I’ve decided to let live. I have to say his blood was one I haven’t tasted in many years...a rare vintage,” she laughed as she wiped the corners of her mouth with a white lace handkerchief.

“Tsk. Yes I tasted it on yer lips and t'was quite good, but not nice that ye won’t share it with me.”

“Oh you’ll find someone soon enough, you always do. To tell you the truth, I’m still feeling a bit peckish. Maybe I’ll find another myself.”

“One we can share together?”

“Oh, all right, one we can share. It is after all Valentine’s Day...or I should say night,” she laughed.

“Darla, sure ye are, after two hundred and ten years, ever the sentimentalist.”

“Angelus,” Darla became pensive,” what would you think if I changed my hair color to blonde?”

“Blonde is nice, but black is better. Still do what ye wish, ye always do me love.”

“Why thank you Angelus. Now let us be off as it is we who hunt in the night.”

"And ye do have a flare for the dramatic as well," he laughed as he joined hands with her.

They disappeared in a swirl of blackness into the darkness.

 

Illya arrived at headquarters in London later that evening, feeling odd though earlier he’d been feeling fine.

Now he was dead tired as if all the energy had been drained from him. He thought perhaps he was coming down with something. It was so much so that he actually went to the Medical suite to get checked out. That was very much unlike him.

After examining the Russian, the doctor named Harker, noticed two small puncture marks on his throat and they seemed quite recent.

“Mr. Kuryakin, were you recently attack by an animal?”

“An animal? No doctor, why do you ask?”

He handed Illya a mirror.”You have two very fresh puncture wounds in your throat. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were bitten by a vampire.” The doctor did chuckle after saying that.

“Do not be ridiculous, there is no such thing.”

“I know; I was just being facetious. Where did you go today by the way, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I went to Highgate Cemetery to visit the grave of Karl Marx...but I became lost and never found it.”

Suddenly Illya felt as if there were a piece missing to a puzzle that had been part of his day.

He remembered going to the cemetery on foot, getting lost, but didn’t remember leaving Highgate, nor his journey here to headquarters.

The physician shook his head, not wanting to address the many rumours attached to Highgate, such as ghosts, ghouls and vampires. It was pointless with a man like Illya Kuryakin, though John Harker was himself a believer in such things.

He supposed it was because his name was the same as the character ‘Jonathan Harker’ in the book, ‘Dracula.’

As a boy he read it, and investigated such things as he grew older. He truly believed in the existence of  the Nosferatu, especially after meeting a man who claimed to be the grandson of the real Abraham Van Helsing…

“Doctor, is there something wrong? You seem to be lost in thought.”

“No, not at all,” Harker said. “I have to tell you Illya that you’re quite anemic. I’m going to have the nurse set you up with transfusion of a pint of blood and I’m afraid I must insist you stay here in the Medical suite for the night. You’re lucky we happen to have both B negative and O negative on hand. Your’s is the second most rare blood type, next to AB negative.”

Illya was so not feeling himself that he readily agreed without any argument. Once receiving the transfusion, he felt better but was still tired, and he fell asleep.

In his dreams he saw a woman’s face in the shadows. She was beautiful but her eyes glowed red. He heard her whisper… _”Happy Valentine’s Day Illya Kuryakin.”_

He awoke at 3 a.m. with a gasp, not knowing what to make of it; Valentine’s Day was something in which he had little interest, so what would prompt his subconscious mind to make him dream about it?  

Perhaps it was merely the power of suggestion as the holiday was only yesterday. Yet the woman’s voice in his dream sounded so familiar.

He convinced himself it was the voice of someone he must have casually spoken to recently, but the face he had no recollection of it whatsoever.

The next morning he was released, but was instructed to remain at headquarters until he fully recovered, as per Alexander Waverly who was acting upon the doctor’s advice.

As Illya dressed himself he detected the scent of lavender on his clothing, though he had no idea how it had gotten there.

He went up to his room in guest quarters and prepared to take a shower when he looked down at himself and discovered the telltale signs that he’d recently had sexual intercourse.

Running his fingers through his blond hair, he was now unnerved as to what could have happened to him yesterday.

After showering and changing into fresh clothing he went down to the dining hall for breakfast. Being preoccupied about his condition, he ordered only a cup of tea and a scone for himself.

Napoleon walked in, having just arrived from New York and was feeling a bit jet lagged; he needed a cup of strong black coffee to keep himself awake through the morning briefing.

“Hi there,” he said as he sat down at the table beside his partner.

Illya didn’t react.

“ _Good morning_ tovarisch,” Napoleon spoke louder.” I have to say you look like hell... rough night last night,” Solo winked.

It was then he noticed the now bruised puncture marks on Illya’s throat. They looked like something out of a vampire movie.

“All kidding aside, what’s happened to you?”

“Good question,” Illya  took a long sip of his tea; “I think I got lucky last night, but I do not remember. When did you get here?”

“In the wee hours of this morning. I went straight to bed, but this jet lag is still biting at my heels. You say you don’t remember having sex? Well it was Valentine’s Day, maybe you fell victim to a little bit of ‘Love potion number 9.”

 _“Victim?_ ” Kuryakin thought to himself. _“Why did that word seem apropos?”_

“Any plans for today tovarisch?”

“No, I have been ordered by the doctor here as well as Mr. Waverly to take it easy for a day or so.  Apparently I was a bit anemic and was given a transfusion. Yesterday, before I fell ill, I tried to go visit the tomb of Karl Marx, but I found myself lost in Highgate Cemetery,”

“Going to try again today? That shouldn’t be too stressful. I could go with you, once my meeting is done this afternoon.”

“No!” Illya suddenly snapped. “Sorry, I am very tired and besides I no longer feel the urge to go to Highgate.”

“I’ve heard a quite a few famous people are buried there; maybe I’ll go myself just to check it out.”

 _“NO!_ ” Illya snapped even louder this time. “That is not a good idea as there are... lots of roaming gangs and thieves; it is not worth the risk,”

“Okay, whatever you say.” Napoleon was completely confused by his partner’s behavior and only hoped some THRUSH seductress hadn’t gotten her hands on him and messed with his head.

He’d keep an eye on Illya for now, though he reminded himself he had a date tonight.

“I met a gorgeous lady at the airport; we’re supposed to get together tonight for drinks at a place called ‘The Gipsy Queen.’

“And who is the lucky lady?”

“Her name’s Darla.”

 _“Darla?”_ Illya blurted out. ”Do not see her Napoleon! I...I have a bad feeling. Please do not go!”

His partner was so agitated that Solo actually agreed not to see the woman. Shame though, she was a real looker, and had gorgeous blonde hair.

 

Illya never returned to Highgate Cemetery on his many subsequent trips to London. He never felt the urge to go there again.

He had a black and white photograph that he kept in his desk drawer at headquarters and that would be the closest he’d get to the tomb of Karl Marx…

 

* ref to [“A Howling in the night.”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2543399)

** ref to [“Spies that go bump in the night”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5032195/chapters/11566987)

 

A/N: Just in case you didn’t get the references: Darla and Angelus were vampire characters in ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer” TV show as well as the spinoff series “Angel.”


End file.
